What Goes Without Saying
by Reda
Summary: It's the eighth game of the Canada-USSR Summit Series. The ridiculously intense emotional high from his people drives Canada outside where he finds calm, collected, ever-smiling Russia. What happens next, well, that goes without saying. A gift-fic for "Mrs. Voldemort's Pet" for being my 250th reviewer on 'One Month!


**Author Notes****:**

- This is a gift-fic for "Mrs. Voldemort's Pet" for being my 250th reviewer! (Every 50 reviews I get, I offer a free one-shot). Congratulations for "winning" and I hope you enjoy! :)

- This is RusCan. This is the very first RusCan I've ever written. Here's to hoping it comes out awesomely. If it's a cliché or overdone topic, I'm really sorry, I wouldn't know better. I actually researched, too, so there! Looked up hockey relations between Russia and Canada, looked up curses, weather conditions, dress styles, anything and everything I could about Canada during the 1970s...sheesh.

- Also, please realize this is _my_ Canada, not my sister's, so there's slight difference between this vision of Canada and the one shown in "One Month."

**Rated****:**

- Rated M. Smex. Smut. Should go without saying, shouldn't it?

**Request****:**

fluffy/smutty/kinky Russia/Canada

(I hope you like it! Smutty and kinky for sure – and kinda sorta fluffy? I tried to fit some in there ;) ))

**Summary****:**

It's the eighth game of the Canada-USSR Summit Series. The ridiculously intense emotional high from his people drives Canada outside where he finds calm, collected, ever-smiling Russia. What happens next, well, that goes without saying.

~!~

What Goes Without Saying

~!~

It was late September, in the late afternoon. He had left the house, wearing his favorite red sweater with his flag printed on it. The afternoon was chilly, as to be expected at this time of year, but it was not too cold, though he was sure his brother would have complained. It was not winter, yet, though winter was definitely coming.

To be honest, he didn't care for the weather or what he was wearing at the moment. His veins were bursting with the excitement and tension of his people. National hockey games were always bad, of course, but this was different. He couldn't stay in the house with _this_ boiling over. Too many people were feeling the same thing. They were connecting on a deeper level, all of them watching the game against the Russians, all of them on edge and feeling _the exact same thing_. This whole series had been bad, but this was the worst; it all came down to this last game...and it was driving him _nuts_.

Okay, so not _every_ single person in his country was interested, but because the vast majority were sucked into the game, Canada couldn't get a breather. To be honest, Matthew Williams loved his hockey just as much as his people, but he had wanted to sit at _home_ during the game. He wanted to be secluded and enjoy the quiet serenity of his home, enjoy time alone. Basically, he wanted to get drunk and yell at the television screen without having anyone there with him.

If he went out, the feelings only intensified. Every nation knew that. They purposefully left their homes when they wanted to connect with their people. It was easier to connect when you were among them, after all. It was easier to understand them when you walked among them, talked with him, listened to them. Of course, during big national events it wasn't necessary to go out and meet the people. Actually, most nations preferred to stay indoors during big national events. Even America preferred to stay at home on his birthday (though he did throw a party and invited other nations).

In times of great sorrow, they were either out among the people, attempting to help cheer them up, or they were sulking alone – or with whomever chose to play the comfort role. In times of great joy, they did stupid things if they were out with the people. Stupid, crazy, insane things. Because getting lost in such joy usually brought about an urge to kiss someone – or more, which always led down roads best left alone.

It was worse when tensions were high. Important national sports games were the best example. Everyone watching. Everyone on edge. Everyone screaming at the announcers or players or coaches or what-have-you. He had _wanted_ to stay inside this time. But with the excitement pulling at him, tugging him to walk, to move, to join in the fun...and then the headache that started to build even as he continued to insist that he didn't want to go anywhere...

Giving in to the desires, Canada made his way to the nearest bar. It was crowded, as to be expected. The television was on full blast and the majority of people were crowding around it. Matthew didn't need to see the game to know what was going on. He could see it happening like a day-dream. Everyone was watching it, after all. If he concentrated hard enough, he could connect to the players, too, though it took a lot of effort because they were so far away – in Moscow for this game.

This last game meant everything. They had to win this one if they wanted to win the series. The emotional high probably wouldn't be so ridiculously intense if the Russians weren't in the lead, if this game _wasn't_ the only way for the Canadian team to win. But it was, so Canada had to deal with the worst emotional high since...since...even his thoughts were being muddled now.

He cursed and made his way to the bar counter, ordering his usual. It took a moment for the bar tender to notice him. Which wasn't because of any strange invisibility he encountered in world meetings. No, it was more because the guy was trying to watch the game like everyone else – and trying to keep everyone satisfied enough to not cause any fights. Though fights weren't exactly likely. There was too much national pride floating around for people to start getting mad at each other, and there weren't any Russians in the room to cause a problem.

Finally getting his beer, Matthew started drinking. It wasn't long before he was yelling and cheering and screaming along with the crowd. He squinted at the television screen, trying to see over some hoser's head, but then reminded himself that he could see the game in ways the people around him couldn't.

He closed his eyes, humming a bit to himself, mimicking the buzz in his head. A vision of the hockey rink entered his mind; the screaming fans, the Russian soldiers scattered throughout, the players skating along the ice, the sound of everything slowly coming to him – it was blurry and filled with holes, but it was there. He watched as the Soviets changed to playing defensive – they were in the lead, after all. Ten minute mark.

Canada took a breath as his players rushed the defense. And then Cournoyer – the name came to him as if he had known it all his life – scored, tying the game. Matthew was about to open his eyes as the bar erupted in cheers, but then he noticed something. The goal light didn't turn on. The goal judge was refusing to do his job.

Matthew nearly crushed the beer bottle in his hand. Fucking Russians... His eyes snapped open and he screamed, almost simultaneously with his people, "That's cheating!"

"No need to yell, Matvey," a voice in his ear had him growling.

He spun around to glare at the snowy haired happily smiling man behind him. If the voice and accent didn't give him away, the white scarf and long tan coat most certainly did. Russia. Here. Of course. Every game he was here. It was as if they were drawn together during these moments, or at least Ivan Braginski always managed to find him.

All he had to do was say one word and the man would be forced to leave. All he had to do was call attention to him. Get him to speak where the multitude could hear. Single him out. Let the others know of his existence on Canadian land. His people would chase the Russian away in a heart beat. They were not in the best of moods to welcome Russians on their soil. Especially not now.

"You're cheating," he growled, though he kept his voice down.

Even if he _could_ get them to chase Ivan away, he didn't _want_ to do that. Whether or not he would admit it out loud or even to himself, he _liked it_ when Russia crossed the ocean and the land to find him. When Russia crossed through America's Alaskan territory...just to find Canada. It was somewhat of an endearing quality, considering Ivan wasn't ever in the best of relations with Alfred.

He was certain his brother knew about it, too. Every nation knew when another nation landed on their territory – in any form. They weren't always able to pin-point the location of course...and when the nation's people were riled up in a national sports event, there wasn't much hope of noticing the invasion in the first place.

Ivan simply smiled at him, purple eyes as ice cold as always. "They will give it up soon, _da_? Your people raise quite the fuss."

Before he could process the words, Russia moved. Hands touched his face. Lips came down and brushed against his own. One hand touched a leg, lightly but close. His breath felt warm. Through the somewhat drunken haze, Canada could feel his own body react _way too damn fast_, too.

"Ch-cheating," he whispered, pushing back.

When the Russian moved away, Matthew found himself leaning heavily against the bar counter currently behind him. He still had a beer bottle in his hand. He could still feel the energy of his people, the insanity of the excitement rush. As expected, a single – even somewhat innocent – kiss caused his body to react with such passion it shouldn't be legal. There was too much lack of control during these events. Too much ease for a lover to come in and take advantage. But when that lover included the nation he was currently competing against...and it was the both of them acting on their people's passion?

Russia leaned forward again, placing hands on either side of Canada, fingers drumming against the bar counter. The bar tender was actually not even watching them, his eyes focused on the television and the angry people. "We should change position."

Matthew took a gulp of much needed air, catching the smokey atmosphere as if noticing it for the first time. There was the smell of smoke and beer and body odor of too many people in one crowded area. Leaving would be best, especially since he was now excited in other ways. _Stupid, stupid, stupid ice-hockey event. Every game this happens! Every game!_

He met Russia's eyes. "Where? The game's almost over."

Ivan smiled again – _that damnable smile_. The Russian stood back up and reached a hand out. "Trust me."

He closed his eyes and tried to think, knowing exactly where this night was going, wanting to avoid it, wishing he had stayed at home yet again. Russia didn't visit much. Not normally. They both liked to stay to themselves for the most part. It was a strange relationship. A long distance thing. A relationship that had never even been defined. They never said anything about it; it was almost like nothing needed to be said in the first place.

Still, he didn't like seeing Ivan during these games. The passion went too far. The heat was too much. The national pride got too high. And the feelings toward the Russians were never...well, never what Matthew personally felt, that much was for certain.

Of course closing his eyes had been a stupid idea. It brought the game back to his mind. The ring. The players. The announcers. The goal. Wait. Someone was in the crowd. There was some scene breaking out. It was blurry. Hard to make out. Whatever it was, though...the scoring changed. Finally. The Canadians were now tied with the Soviets. The game was back on course.

The emotion was spinning around. A crazy swell of pride and cheers and _so much all at once it hurt_. A hand touched his leg again, his thigh, and he groaned as the feeling expanded to more than it ever should have been. He opened his eyes, feeling dazed, seeing Ivan no longer smiling...no, it was there – slight and hidden under the scarf but there.

"F-fine. Where to?"

Russia's hand moved, taking the bottle out of Canada's hand and setting it on the counter before pulling Matthew to his feet. "It is not far. I passed it on my way here, _da_?"

With a long sigh, he gave in and nodded his head. Wherever the Russian wanted to go. He didn't really care right now. There was too much hype in his body. He almost felt like he was tingling, like electricity would spark out of his hands and destroy the technology around him. There was even a buzz in his ear, and he started humming to try to ignore it.

Ivan kept the grip on his hand, tugging him along. Canada decided to close his eyes again as they walked, giving himself completely to the Russian's lead. Something his brother would have called him crazy for doing. Something most of his people would have hated him for doing. No one really liked the Russians. Not right now. Not during this highly competitive sports series.

They walked outside. He could feel the chill, but then he could almost feel the hockey rink in Moscow. Plays left and right. Problems. Calls. Shouts. The fans were going nuts. The players were on edge, too, every last one nervous and anxious and running on so much adrenaline. It was like the fans watching the game, everyone poised, watching the clock, waiting for it to count down and spell their doom. They needed one more score.

Just one.

Then they were inside and Canada opened his eyes, seeing a hockey rink. The vision made him step back, and Ivan was there with a hand on his spine to push him forward. Russia had taken him to a nearby rink. The man must have been insane. The headache was already starting to hit him, his vision growing blurry, his hearing fading, and yet Ivan continued to tug him forward, closer and closer to the center.

They hit the glass and Matthew held his hands up, pressing against the firm surface, feeling his legs going weak. The visions of the game in Moscow were starting to blur with reality. He could see the players as if they were right in front of him. Even with his eyes open, he could see them, skating along. Just his players, though. Just the Canadians.

The presence and roar of fans were there, too, but it wasn't near close to what he had heard when the games were in his own nation. Still, it was enough to make him shiver, enough to make him warm, enough to make him groan. And then Ivan _had_ to stand behind him, hands going down to his hips, head leaning down to whisper in his ear.

"This is best way to enjoy game," Ivan said, as if it were the clearest thing in the world.

He shivered. "You're crazy."

"Just watch, _da_?" Ivan said, his tongue flicking out to lick at the ear, mouth grabbing the earlobe and nibbling.

Canada shivered again. Always like this. Every game. Except the rink was new. The ability to watch the game like this was new. It must have been a new discovery of Ivan's. A reason why the Russian could easily cross the border even during a national event. The man was insane. Strong and powerful enough to go against his people so easily. Calm and collected and in control even during a high moment of passion.

Ivan's mouth moved to his neck, taking a bite and sucking, making his eyes close as he let out a light noise. The passion was high. He was warm already. He wanted more already. A simple innocent kiss had started this, and he wasn't going to be free until the game ended and he earned release.

He felt hands pulling his shirt back, fingers sliding along his skin. His breath caught in his throat and he moaned as a palm grazed along a nipple. Feeling his own hands shaking, he lifted them from the glass and started to lean back, wanting to tangle them in Ivan's hair, wanting to tug and pull and scratch and -

"_Nyet_, watch the game, Matvey," Ivan demanded, his hands leaving Matthew's skin to force arms back to the glass wall.

Groaning, Canada opened his eyes, once again seeing his players skating on the rink. They were clearer than before. The headache wasn't near as pronounced as it had been a few moments before, either. Fire ran up his veins as he watched them, as Ivan went back to sliding along his skin, finding every sensitive spot, _knowing_ every area, making him squirm. Then the idea hit him. Everything was so clear, it was like he was there. He could almost sense the fans that were close to this very spot. When a player looked up and faced his direction, he shivered, feeling as if the eyes were almost on him.

"_Dieu_," he whispered. It was like they were doing this _in the rink in Moscow with the game going on_.

And it caused an even greater warmth to spread, as if the idea of being watched, whether or not it was actually true, was a new turn on in itself. "Ah – you see, _da?"_

Hands were at his waistband, tugging the button apart, nearly ripping the zipper off. His breath was starting to sound more like pants, gasping for air. Passions were high. Things were tense. And his pants were coming off, slipping down, underwear shortly thereafter, releasing an obviously needy little friend.

When Ivan's big hands wrapped around his member, he let his own fingers claw at the glass in front of him. His eyes closed and he moaned, feeling a thumb moving along the tip, slowly, gently, too-incredibly-soft to be _Russia_ of all people. Yet it was him, and it was driving Canada mad.

The grip around him tightened, and he let out a yelp in response, not having expected the rough treatment after such a gentle touch. "Eyes open, Matvey."

He had turned his head to the side, pushing against the glass with his face, and when he gave into Russia's demand, he found himself eye-to-eye with a fan. A fan who was _not really_ seeing him, but who just so happened to be looking directly at him with the perfect disgusted glare. Ivan began to toy with him some more, fingers playing along his dick, sliding down, then back up. A hand on his hip kept him up, as well as the knee in between his legs, giving him something to lean back against. Something to try to grind against.

He started to pant and the fan watching seemed to grow even more disgusted, turning away. "Ahh – hahh -" the moan broke free, disturbed and surprised to discover how much he liked the idea of being watched. It took every bit of control he had just to keep his eyes open, just to watch as more and more fans appeared around him.

"You see, Matvey. _This_ is best way to enjoy game."

"Nnnng."

He couldn't even give a good enough response, finding himself lost in double the passion. Forced to be a part of the game. Forced to participate, to see everything and everyone, to be around them even if he wasn't technically with them. It made the emotional high rise even higher. With Ivan behind him, breathing against his neck, touching him as he was, making demands that were expected to be followed...with everything working against him, he felt like he had been drugged with an aphrodisiac. Like he was going to come much sooner than he normally would have, but his body was so hot, so impassioned by everything around him, by his people's connected emotions and by Ivan's presence.

So much was working against him at this point. He felt his body fall back against Ivan, slumping, unable to hold itself up. The energy was leaving, about to burst out in one moment and then disappear completely. Russia's response was to move the hand from Canada's hip and grip his jaw instead, turning his gaze to the actual game and not the fans.

"Watch," came the command.

A tongue licked his neck and he moaned. A familiar feeling began to burn in his stomach, pushing down. Focusing in on one area, threatening to spread.

Still, he watched. The players were panting, just as he was. They were pushing their ways around the ice, and he started to do the same, his body connecting with theirs in an unexplainable way, though he couldn't actually skate, settling for simply pushing back and forth, making movements against something else entirely. The clock was running down. He didn't even care anymore. Time meant nothing.

Fingers were in his mouth, pressing against his tongue, but he hardly noticed. He was sucking on them and he didn't realize it. The game was the first thing in his mind. Pressure was building down below, close to bursting. So close.

But the game was near its end. He could hear Ivan whisper in his ear as Henderson made a shot and missed. "You lose, Matvey."

There was only 34 seconds left on the clock. Everything froze. Time moved slowly. He could feel his people holding their breath as he did. The rebound came back to Henderson and he shot again. _"They score! Henderson has scored for Canada!"_

Ivan grunted behind him just as the passion almost took complete control over Canada and he came, releasing but not feeling release. The tension eased. The blurs of people hugging each other, of the players celebrating. Feeling the fire spreading through his veins, feeling the pride and happiness of his people all across the nation... he spat the fingers out of his mouth and spun around.

Pushing Ivan to the floor he climbed on top of him, leaning his forehead down to hit against the forehead of his snowy lover, meeting his eyes directly. "No, I think that's a win."

Ivan looked like a deer caught in headlights, eyes wide and dancing around wildly. It was probably a terrible blow for him. The Canadians won. He won. Against Russia. He had to smirk, feeling his own satisfaction at finally besting the cool, calm, collected one.

Then he kissed him, full on the mouth, being gentle and slow, keeping the man pinned. Truly through, Russia was not perfectly pinned. Hands slipped under his shirt, sliding along his side, resting near his hips before drawing circles. One still had a glove on it. Two different textures touching his skin. Three seconds more and Canada pulled back, resting his own bare hands against Ivan's chest, panting even as he glared down at the other nation.

"A hockey rink. Really?"

Someone else might have thought his question would have turned the mood. Someone else might have complained, might have whined, about how such a question was so far from the passion. No one asked questions during sex. Speaking was almost frowned upon, at least during the act. Short phrases, fine. Shouts of love in the midst of passion, of course. But questions?

Ivan did not complain. His mouth tipped up and he smiled, his eyes flashed in mirth. It was like a game. Making fun of each others different kinks. Even sitting beneath him, Ivan's smile brought back the control previously possessed.

Fingers still wet from earlier, the Russian lowered them and began to poke into Canada's entrance. Even as the roar of a game several kilometers away filled their ears. Even as the passions of their people exploded into one gigantic climax. Even as the world continued around them in their mortal frenzy, Ivan and Matthew rode on the fires of their people and expressed such passion in the most primal ways.

It was more than primal, though, as Canada was prepared gently, as he groaned and rolled his hips and insisted on having the control, of sitting "on top" so to speak because he _was_ the victor in their little game. His brother would have pulled him away. His brother hated knowing that there was any relation between Canada and Russia at all. Thankfully, his brother was far away, visiting his _own_ lover across the sea.

Thankfully, his own people were occupied, partying the win away. It was a momentous occasion, something sure to be remembered on the history books. If there was anything Canada was known for – it was and always would be his hockey prowess. Especially after today. After this particular win. After besting the Soviets.

Feeling the heat taking over once again, Matthew grabbed at Ivan's arms and forced them back, pulled the fingers out, and slammed them down on either side of the Russian's hands. For his part, Russia narrowed his eyes and stared up at him, no longer having the power to push back against the Canadian as he normally might have done. In this situation, Canada had full control; he could do whatever he wanted; he could stand up and leave; he could throw the passion into a different angle, if he so chose.

But there would be none of that. Leaning down he brought their lips together again, catching the breath from his white-haired lover. Keeping his grip on the man's wrists, he began to slowly grind against the thing beneath him. Russia was still clothed, so it would be impossible to do much else. Matthew was the only one without pants, and he was going to show Ivan exactly what he felt about _that_.

To his own great surprise, he got a whine. Small. Short. And immediately cut off. But it _had _happened. Russia was not so in charge of himself as he put off. Licking his lips, Matthew pulled back, hearing his name whispered in Ivan's heavily accented voice.

Something twitched beneath him and Matthew groaned, feeling heat rushing to his face. So much for teasing. He could not handle much more of it, either. Not with his people's pride and passion so high. Not with this emotional roller coaster cascading through his body and mind. Letting his grip go, Canada gasped as Russia moved quickly, unbuttoning the coat, and releasing his hard member from the confines of his own pants. And then Matthew was being lifted and he moaned and gasped as he was lowered onto the recently released appendage.

At first, he bit his lip and shut his eyes, trying to wait for it all to adjust, trying to get his body to accept the feeling. It shouldn't be too difficult. It wasn't like he was a virgin. But Russia was not a patient one, beginning to move after only a short few seconds of panting while sitting still. At the first thrust, Canada cried out, feeling the high heat tingle that ran up his spine, but he forced himself to focus.

He had won the game. He should be in charge of the pace. Russia was a scary nation as far as the rest of the world was concerned, but Canada was no pushover (quite unlike what the rest of the world believed, as well). World view on nations was honestly quite wrongly portrayed at times. Canada was able to growl his way into control, once again grabbing Ivan's wrists and pinning the arms down, leaning over to make himself face-to-face with the purple eyed cold nation.

"I'm in charge," he choked out, hearing his breath catch and pant.

Ivan actually groaned in response. "Then move, Matvey."

Matthew smirked. "When I feel like it," he managed, finding his mouth moving to the man's jaw, kissing his way along the skin not covered by Russia's scarf.

As Matthew continued to wait, Ivan lifted a leg and then stretched it out, almost kicking in his displeasure. "Matvey..."

It was amazing. The ability he had to make the great Russian – the leader of the Soviet Union – squirm underneath him. Because of a game. All because of a hockey game, Canada had perfect control. It made him shiver, but the very reminder of the game – of winning the game – and his connection to his people came back full force.

He moaned and lifted up, gasping as he found the angle he needed. And then he moved. At his own pace. Forward. Back. Up. Down. All at his own will. All at what _he_ felt like doing. He could look down and meet the eyes of Ivan, catching the flashes of pleasure at what must have been agonizingly slow for him.

Though Matthew did pick up as the feelings and the heat spread to unimaginable pressures. It soon became difficult to breathe and the air was filled with their gasps of breath. Little spouts of fog puffing from their lips, because it was _cold in here_. The hockey rink. The ice. And yet they were sweating and lost in a world of so much heat.

When Canada closed his eyes, he could still see his people. Lost in the cheers, in the national pride, in the congratulatory hugs, in the lover celebrations. The warmth permeating his person was more than just from his own situation. People all over the nation were celebrating in their own ways. Everyone lost in their own moments. National events. Something that would forever be remembered. Of how they conquered the Soviets. Of how close it had been, of how challenging, and how they came out on top.

"_Henderson has scored for Canada."_

The very words would be remembered for years. The emotion, the elation, the sudden boost in confidence all around the country. Yes, it would be remembered. Not by the rest of the world. Most of the world ignored him still. But they would remember, they would catalog the day away in the history books, and that was all that mattered.

~!~

Ivan decided to stay at his house for a few days after the incident. At first, Matthew didn't mind. The two of them didn't get too many opportunities to chill together, after all. They may have been fine with each other – or more than fine – but their people weren't of the same opinions. Country relations were odd like that.

They slept in the same bed, ate at the same times, watched movies and otherwise enjoyed Matthew's vacation time together. Still, winter was coming. There were things to prepare for. There was a job still waiting to be done. Matthew's boss may have let him off for a few days – because _everyone_ was still enjoying the victory and the random rushes of connected emotion would have been insanely difficult to deal with in a work environment. But that didn't mean he would be free of work forever. In fact, it was only three days later that he got a call from his current boss, asking him to come in and discuss things – bosses always liked to use the nations for their ability to _know_ what the people thought about certain issues.

That morning, as Matthew climbed out of bed and proceeded to get ready for work, he began to wonder why Ivan was still in his house. As he finished dressing in his suit, Canada made his way to the kitchen where Russia was busy setting up his own meal and cups of tea – the man wasn't one to sleep in past daybreak. Lingering in the doorway, he watched the stoic man work with surprisingly deft and delicate hands; Matthew could even recognize the tune on the man's lips. Tchaikovsky. Russia had several composers that he would think of, but the one Matthew could most easily recognize was the ever popular Tchaikovsky.

He sighed, "When are you going back?"

Ivan stopped everything he was doing and turned around to face Matthew with a smile. "You are wanting to get rid of me, Matvey?"

Feeling a blush hit his face, Canada waved his hand in the air. "No, that's not what I said." Clearing his throat, he explained. "I was more worried about what your boss would think of you being here."

Russia didn't lose his smile. If anything it grew a hint of the _something else_ that the rest of the world saw as frightening. "I know he will not care because otherwise I kill him."

He froze, feeling his breath catch, licking his lips, forcing a laugh. "Ah hah...you're joking, right?"

The very _idea_ of a nation killing his boss...

"I have done it before," Ivan stated, his voice cold, his eyes closed, his mouth still with _that_ smile.

And Matthew had to remember. Had to think of Russia's history. What could he be talking about? Was he referring to the change to the Soviet Union? The revolution? Or was it something not so obvious? What _was_ Russia's history? He knew so little... He knew so little about him period. Hell, he didn't even know what this relationship of theirs _was_ exactly.

He gulped, "Uhm. Right. Well, I have to go to work, so -"

Ivan opened his eyes but his expression remained unreadable. Always unreadable. He was one of the hardest nations to predict. One moment he could be cute and lovable and the next say something so bone-chilling (like "i've killed my boss before") that anyone would step back. It was no wonder why the Baltic states were always trembling in his presence or why Prussia, currently East Germany, hated him. No one else saw the cute side as an endearing quality. No one else seemed willing to look beyond the strange snaps in personality.

Even Canada found it difficult at times. Especially when America's communist-hatred started leaking into his own country. It became a tug-of-war between his own feelings and those of his people. It was what made it possible for him to understand Russia's personality switches. If your nation wanted one thing, if your people wanted something, your boss something else, and _you_ wanted something different entirely...it was no wonder Ivan was so guarded about his feelings of home.

Matthew opened his mouth to say something. An offer. That Ivan could stay here as long as he wanted. That it didn't matter how long he stayed, if that was what he wanted to do. After all, it would have been difficult to return to the cold confines of the Russian homeland right now. The nation's depression after losing such a big game series...whether or not Ivan showed it, it was obvious he didn't want to return now.

But the words never left his lips. The offer sat there without ever being spoken. Instead, Ivan put on his smile and nodded. "Then don't be late, Matvey."

The smile was so warm, so understanding, so full of emotions that the rest of the world refused to recognize. It was one of those moments again. Just as with their relationship. Nothing was ever spoken, but nothing needed to be said. He could nod and smile back and know that Ivan understood everything. No need to say anything about letting him stay; no need to bring up the fact that Russia didn't want to go home yet; no need to start an awkward conversation.

It was like one of those connections that humans were always going on about as romantic things. Reading each other's thoughts. Finishing sentences. Understanding without a word.

Eventually, Russia would leave, but not today. And not for a few days after that. Matthew would come home each day to the strange atmosphere of Ivan Braginski, terror of the Soviet Union, sitting in his house playing games with Kumajiro, his polar bear. Childish games, too. Or just generally _being cute_. The image of Ivan curled up with Kumajiro, lying on a blanket on the floor with the radio still blaring in the background...

Well, it added to the list of things that went without saying.

When the Russian did choose a day to grab his coat and gloves, having always been wearing his scarf of course, and walk out the door...there was no question. A little goodbye kiss, as if the parting of such sweet lovers, but no words spoken. There was no need. Why ruin a perfect moment with words that would never be satisfactory enough to explain?

Matthew did stand at the door and watch the Russian walk away. He stood as the cold breeze cut through his clothes like ice, the tell-tale sign of winter flashing its fangs. Ivan was heading back to a world just as cold – if not colder – and a disjunct family of people who feared or hated their time with him. Only Matthew understood.

Only Matthew would miss him...and count the days until his return, watching the news for another chance, another excuse, for Ivan to visit once more.

~!~

_A/N: This is where I explain things. Ah hah. What is there to explain? When I write, I have characters in mind, I put them in situations, and tend to just let them go. This is what happens. I really like Russia, but he's really hard to write. There's a reason this is all from Canada's point-of-view. Hah. Also, over 6000 words for a one shot? You have GOT to be kidding me; that's kinda crazy for me xD Hope it was worth it, Mrs. Voldemort's Pet!_

_-One thing: I posted a poll on my profile. Asking what project I should be focusing on. Short stories (and collections) don't count, but I have some unfinished One Piece stories, as well as a few Hetalia ones worth voting on. So, go check it out and vote (if you read more than this, at least). _

**Canada-USSR Series / Super Series / Summit Series: **an eight-game series of ice hockey between the Soviet Union and Canada, held in September 1972. It was the first competition between the Soviet national team and a Canadian team represented by professional players of the NHL, known as _Team Canada_. It was the first international ice hockey competition for Canada after Canada had withdrawn from international ice hockey competitions in a dispute with the IIHF. The series was organized with the intention to create a true best-on-best competition in the sport of ice hockey. The Soviets had become the dominant team in international competitions, which disallowed the professional players of Canada. Canada had had a long history of dominance of the sport prior to the Soviets' rise. (Go read about the last game of the series; it's fucking crazy! xD)


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